Another Word For Love
by BizarreSerenity
Summary: "Why is it, Amon muses, as the tide grabs at him, salt stinging like fire against his scorached skin, that we always realize the value of something when we lose it?" Lieumon, AmonxLieutenant rated M.


The Lieutenant had a lot of scars.

Amon knew the story behind each and every one of them, knew them by heart, had committed their location, size, and path to his memory.  
Even now, he does not forget.

The largest was a patch of burned skin on his upper back, right between his shoulder blades, rough, patchy skin caused by a generator that had short circuited one night after his Kali sticks were frozen by one of the Triad's better Waterbenders. Amon remembers the fear that had crept sickly into the pit of his stomach as he bathed the burns, rubbing salve into them and changing the bandages every hour. Lieu, for that is what he chose to be called, had no complaints, but Amon could see the lines of pain etched in the other man's forehead, the flicker in his eyes.

There were claw marks curled around his sides from the day Avatar Korra's polar bear dog had knocked him away, deep gashes that Amon had sewn up with a steady hand, though his heart was anything but. They curved around Lieu's ribcage, savage, puckered at the edges where Amon had forced the needle through. Lieu had ripped his stitches a half dozen times trying to get out of bed on his own, after coming in from a solo mission he'd snuck out on, after leaning too far to one side afterward.

His hands are a roughened by an engineer's work, scar tissue running thickly from the webbing of his thumb and forefinger on his left hand, down to his wrist. Those scars were from another time, unbeknownst to Amon, but had been caused by a broken gear that caught against Lieu's hand after he was repairing a textile machine from back in his factory days. He would have lost the hand had it not been for the Waterbender who worked beside him in the building, and, though Lieu had voiced his protests, the man healed him. Nor Lieu or Amon had forgotten his kindness.

As an act of mercy, his bending was the first that Amon ever took.

His left thigh bears faded scorch marks from early experimentation with his Kali sticks and generator, back when the circuits were still unstable. They are deep, but smooth around the edges, pock marks engraved into his skin. There are five on his upper thigh, spaced widely apart, but smaller, rounded.

There are light, fading crescents at his neck, curiously enough, resembling bite marks.

There are little nicks at the back of his neck, long since healed, made by Amon's nails. Likewise, at Lieu's lower back, are matching short sets of raised scars, neat little cuts that will forever mark the permanent evidence that yes, the feared Amon had a heart. He had, no _loves_, despite the tales of his mercilessness.

The thought that Lieu will carry these scars forever gives him a tinge of relief. Amon will not be forgotten. If the whole city forsakes him, even if _Lieu_ forsakes him, and he will, because Amon failed him, betrayed him with the very thing they both hated, Amon will be something else besides a failure, a revolutionary leader who weaved lies for his own purposes.

Amon had been a man as well as a monster.

A man in love.

It seems so important to him now, as he lies next to the blackened corpse of his brother. It seems so important now, when it never did before. The surf rocks against him, tugging at him even as his body sinks down into the sand, as if Water is welcoming him home, even though he has forsaken it for all of these years.

He can hear the singing of the waves, but he does not close his eyes and surrender.

Instead, he thinks of Lieu.

His Lieutenant will survive. Lieu was always strong, had a high pain threshold, never cried out when Amon bandaged his wounds, sewed them up, and set his broken bones. He never protested, never raised his voice, never raised his hand to him. He was everything Amon was not: gentle, kind, docile, deep, calm, beautiful.

He completed him.

Such a price that Amon has paid for his failed revolution.

His eyes were blue, Amon thinks, not the icy shade of Amon's Tribe, but a brilliant blue, like the sky. His eyes were blue and he loved him, _Amon_, who was said to be disfigured, him, _Amon_, who was said to be something not quite human, him, _Amon_, who had no mercy.

Lieu had filled the empty places inside of him, motivated him, took him into his arms, and gave himself mind, body, and soul to his leader.

Amon took him.

Claimed him.

Made him his forever.

And now, as he lies dying on a beach in the middle of nowhere, Amon wonders if he will see him in the afterlife.

Where will the Spirits take him, Amon, who has committed thousands of sins? Amon, who had taken the gifts from so many that were 'blessed' with them?

He casts those thoughts away.

He does not care.

_Lieu._

He wants to think of his right hand man as he dies, his lover, his everything as the stars fade away before him.

He recalls the feeling of Lieu's body against him, his wiry muscles, the taste of him. He recalls his voice, low, gravely, pleading for release. He recalls the way the man laid his life down for him, the tenderness of his touch, the way he nearly worshiped his body when they made love.

Why, Amon asks himself, was this never important?

Why, he wants to scream, did I never think of this before?

He should have never hidden all of those things. He should have placed more trust in Lieu. He should have made more room in his heart, pushed back some of the hate and thirst for vengeance.

_Noatak_ was the name Lieu should have been whispering as they coupled, _Noatak_ should have been music to his ears, _Noatak _should have been what Lieu had rasped when Amon had bloodbended the Avatar into submission at his feet.

_Noatak._

How he had forgotten the sound of his name, the music of it.

Amon thinks that he would have given anything at that moment to hear his Lieutenant say it, his true name, the name his mother, and yes, his father, had given to him.

_Noatak._

He had become the very tool Yakone had wanted him to be. He had gathered the fear Yakone had wanted, the fame, the revenge. He had taken the Avatar's bending, rendered her helpless. He had taken the whole city by storm, crushed it in his hands, molded it.

And in place for his revolution, his failure, he had sacrificed the thing he had held so dear to him.

Why is it, Amon muses, as the tide grabs at him, salt stinging like fire against his scorched skin, that we always realize the value of something when we lose it?

Amon wonders how bad he had hurt Lieu, physically. He had hoisted him into the air using Lieu's own body against him, and slammed him into a wall, if only to get him away. So stuck in his craze, in the thrill of finally having his enemy at his knees, he did not notice the scaffolding fall.

Inside, Amon knows that Lieu is broken, because Amon is, shattered beyond repair.

He would weep, if he had the strength for it.

He does not.

The stars are starting to wink away, and stubbornly, Amon clings to one last memory, shoving aside those of Avatar Korra, of Yakone and Tarrlok.

"_**Amon."**_

**His voice was dark, deep, and his hands were strong. He could feel the scars on Lieu's hands even through the layers of his robes, pressing against him.**

**Holding him back.**

**Lieu was the only one levelheaded and strong enough to break Amon out of his rages, out of the moments where nothing short of fire danced in his gaze. Lieu grabbed him by the shoulders and took him to bed, shedding his own jacket first before his nimble fingers worked at the buckles and buttons of Amon's robes.**

**Amon let his robes and tunic be lifted over his head, dark skin riddled with scars, fighter's scars, nothing like the ones Lieu bore on his lean limbs. Anger burned like acid beneath his skin, boiling in his blood. It simmered inside him, nearly visible in the air, an anger that had been buried deep throughout the years, and anger that comes from being beaten as a child, rendered helpless.**

**The candles in his bedroom flickered as Lieu traced patterns into his skin, thumbs rubbing circles onto his shoulders. His hands were warm against Amon's skin, nearly hot, and rough. Callouses, scars, healing blisters.**

**He felt the snap of his anger, like a bone breaking, a limb detaching, but Lieu did not leave him, didn't move.**

**No, his faithful Lieutenant let himself be pinned down to their bed, let Amon fasten his teeth into the curve of his neck, sharp nails raking down his back. Amon had always been a rough lover, passionate, but this was different. This was something more, something unrestrained, something that he desperately **_**needed.**_

**Amon kissed him, teeth clacking, nipping at Lieu's bottom lip ,ripping at his trousers. Lieu's hands fumbled for his belt buckle, then Amon's, before the last of their clothing was torn away. The fire was rising, and though Amon was a Waterbender, it was not the cool of his element that ran through his veins. It was flame, brimstone, burning from his bones and claiming his thoughts.**

**And yet Lieu was still save for the occasional shift, the snapping of his hips to meet Amon's, legs wrapping around his waist, back arching. He was a vocal lover, Amon's name falling from his lips like a prayer, groaned, screamed, whispered. Their bed shook, trembled, and soon the two were spent.**

**Afterward, the fire cooled, and he held Lieu in his arms, close, hearts meshed and one, breaths in sync.**

"**It's alright." Lieu murmured, fingers skating down the cheek Amon's mask, the one thing that had never come off in his presence, the thing that was never questioned. It was lifted for kisses, for whispers, for speech, giving a glimpse of rough, chapped lips, but never discarded. "I've got you."**

**And he had.**

The stars are gone, but the moon is full, a silver coin in the sky, casting warm and comforting light down onto his bleeding, burned body, onto Tarrlok's remains.

_Lieu_ is what Amon whispers, as the light falls on him, bright and comforting. _Lieu._

_Lieu_ might as well have been another word for _Love_, because his face, his voice, his scars, and his being are what Amon sees, breathes, and hears as the world comes to a stop, the waves freezing mid tide, the breeze silenced. For a moment Amon thinks that he sees his lover, bathed in that light, standing beside a woman with long, rippling hair like moonlight come to life. They are standing before him, but Amon only has eyes for his lover, even though the woman is impossibly beautiful. His breath rasps in his chest as he reaches, with the last of his strength, towards the man who had given up everything for him.

Amon's fingers lace into his, scars rough against burned flesh, warm skin, strength.

Amon's eyes close.

He is still.

_Lieu._


End file.
